


Six Days of Silence

by SurelyMeretricious



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Love, M/M, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:09:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurelyMeretricious/pseuds/SurelyMeretricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock had not spoken for six days.  John is there to be whatever he needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Days of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first finished work and I really appreciate you looking at it! Any feedback is welcome! Thanks to sureimsherlock for being my Beta!

Sherlock had not spoken for six full days. Not talking for a few days was a regular enough occurrence for him, but not usually for such an extended period of time. At least, not since John had moved in. A lot had changed since John had come into his life. Even more had changed since they had become lovers. 

On the first day of silence, John had been at what he liked to refer to as his “real job”, so he had barely noticed. At least the clinic paid regularly, unlike Sherlock’s cases. The second day, John took note of the quietly sulking Sherlock on the sofa. John didn’t press him for conversation, merely laid a hand to Sherlock’s forehead, brushing aside his curls to assure himself that his clever detective did not have a fever. The third day, John simply pushed Sherlock aside on the sofa, set some food and tea in front of him, and turned on the telly. Sherlock ate, reluctantly at first, and John dozed off once he was satisfied that Sherlock had eaten enough. By the fourth day, John’s brows had begun to crease with worry. If Sherlock had any deductions concerning the current positioning of John’s facial features and what one could defer from that information, he did not vocalize them.

It did not really take a well-trained eye to see that John was beginning to grow a bit restless. He sighed loudly as he walked around the flat and crinkled his newspaper audibly as he read. John was desperate for sound. At this point, anything was preferable to this morbid reticence. He went out that night, but when he came back he made Sherlock get up and at least sulk next to him in bed. Though their bodies were pressed tightly together, John still felt cold, like they were miles apart.

On the fifth day, Mrs. Hudson came up to see if they needed anything. She too had noticed the increasingly eerie silence. She asked in good humour if they had had another row. John’s small, hollow laugh placated her nerves as he assured her they were fine and that they just wanted to be alone. John may not have desired the sonic void, but he knew that Sherlock did, so it had to be tolerated. Mrs. Hudson eventually got the hint as John gently steered her back to her own flat. When he came back up Sherlock rolled over on the sofa to face him. His expression was vacant but John accepted his unspoken gratitude. John sat down silently in his chair to read and was rewarded by Sherlock getting up and moving to crouch across from him in his own chair, his blue dressing gown hanging open. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around his shins and rested his chin on his knees. Surprising anyone that knew him, his facial hair had been allowed to grow unhampered and it now covered the lower half of his face in a dark and scruffy cloud. John, not for the first time, frowned a bit at this. Sulking may be normal, but Sherlock was usually never seen in anything but pristine condition. His clothes may sometimes be casual, but they were always neat. His hair was combed and his face was clean-shaven- even when he had nothing more than a sheet on. Never like this. John wondered if something had finally snapped in his lover’s overtaxed brain. Or, as John hoped, maybe Sherlock had just gotten so comfortable around him that he didn’t care as much.

Nothing changed on the sixth day. Soon after John had breakfast, Sherlock only nibbling dry toast, the detective dozed off. John noticed Sherlock had been sleeping more and more. Usually the man couldn’t be bothered to snatch more than a few hours here and there. John began to wonder if he had misdiagnosed Sherlock’s seeming lack of illness. He listened carefully until he could hear Sherlock’s light snoring. Satisfied by the slow, steady pace of Sherlock’s deep breaths, John walked over to him. He stepped as carefully as if there were broken glass all over the floor and he were barefoot. 

Sherlock was curled in the foetal position with his face pressed into the corner of the sofa. John’s face was set in a frown of concentration as he leaned over the suddenly frail body in front of him. John could smell the sour of unwashed skin. Sherlock’s hair looked greasy and his curls were limp, as if in surrender. John was starting to worry this was more serious than even he understood. True, Sherlock was prone to bouts of melancholia when his sagacious mind felt unused, but this felt like an entirely new breed of demon.

Seeing Sherlock in such a sorry state resolved John’s troubled mind. He had coddled the brilliant man for long enough. It was time to put his foot down. He reached out his hand and shook Sherlock’s shoulder. When this did not get the reaction he needed he tried again, only a bit rougher. This roused Sherlock enough to make him roll over onto his back. His skin looked almost like wax. He focused his blurry eyes on John eventually, and when John was sure he had Sherlock’s attention he said gently, “Get up, love. It’s been days since you’ve had a shower and you’re starting to smell.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the comment weakly but brought himself stiffly to a sitting position. With his thumb and middle finger Sherlock rubbed his eyes against a wave of dizziness. When he opened them again he was greeted by the sight of John’s outstretched hand. Sherlock accepted the offering after a few seconds and allowed himself to be helped up. He staggered a bit over John but the smaller man’s steady arm around his waist held him upright. Wordlessly they shuffled into the bathroom, John turned on the water but Sherlock made no movement other than to lean his tall frame against the wall.

Once the water reached a desired temperature, John withdrew his hand from the stream and walked over to his breathing mannequin. Methodically he began to undress Sherlock. Articles of clothing were left to fall onto the floor like raindrops. Sherlock endured this treatment with his eyes downcast. John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and upper arm firmly and steered him to where he was under the spray of water. Sherlock flinched a little when the harsh liquid began to assault his flesh. Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s hand and pulled the doctor into the shower with him. He only relinquished his hold when John’s clothes were properly drenched. 

John pulled his black t-shirt over his head and leaned out of the shower to throw it, sopping, into the sink. To it he added the dead weight of his drenched jeans and, finally, his red briefs. John leaned out once more and grabbed Sherlock’s toothbrush and toothpaste off the counter. He squeezed out some of the paste onto the bristles and handed the toothbrush to Sherlock, who began cleaning his teeth in a docile manner as John re-positioned their bodies so that the other man was directly under the full force of the water.

Misty steam swirled between their bodies and clung to John in gentle, lazy droplets. Contrary, the very same water ran down Sherlock’s body in mad rivulets. It was as if the water was embodying both of their natures in one instant. 

John allowed himself to just trace the path of the water with his eyes, watching as it covered every inch of Sherlock, claiming his flesh like a greedy lover. It ran from his hair, plastered to his face, over the ridges of his cheekbones. From there it plunged through the short, thick hair now dominating his face and neck and into the hollow of his throat. The water traveled past clavicles and lean pectoral muscles and down to his naval, where it was quickly lost in his cloud of dark pubic hair.

John’s meditation was interrupted by Sherlock setting his toothbrush aside and rinsing his mouth down the circling drain. John squirted shampoo into his open palm and rubbed his hands together. His nostrils flared with the smell of eucalyptus and mint. The steam quickly picked up the scent and carried it until it swarmed around the both of them. Reaching up, John began to lather the shampoo into Sherlock’s hair. The remaining suds he rubbed into Sherlock’s beard with a sad smile. He knew every inch of Sherlock’s body, but this scruffy newness felt foreign and strange. 

When he was satisfied with the work he had done, John placed an open palm against Sherlock’s chest and pushed him back a few inches, causing John’s soapy marks on Sherlock to be quickly undone. John ruffled Sherlock’s hair until he was sure the last of the soap had been removed. Sherlock’s eyes had closed under the water. John pulled him back and into a gentle kiss. Sherlock didn’t react at all. John retreated for a second then kissed him again, a little more urgently. This time Sherlock responded by parting his supple lips enough for John to deepen the kiss. John eventually pulled back and placed one more kiss, this one chaste, on Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock timidly wrapped his arms around his doctor and pulled him close. They stood like that, just breathing, letting their heartbeats sync until the water turned frigid.

Shivering, John reached behind Sherlock and turned off the water. John grabbed a towel and began ruffling it through Sherlock’s curls. When they were merely damp he turned his attention to drying Sherlock’s body. The towel warmed Sherlock’s skin and he eventually stopped shivering. John grabbed a dry towel and wrapped it around Sherlock. The detective grabbed onto it like a child holding on to their baby blanket. John vigorously dried himself and together they moved into the bedroom.

“Sherlock-” John began. ”I’m getting really concerned here. Is there anything- anything at all- I can do to help you?”

Sherlock responded by shaking his head as he sat down on the bed. John could tell from the way Sherlock’s muscles tensed that he was about to curl up again. He had seen this same movement more times than he cared to over the last few days. He would tense up, then curl inside himself. To sleep more. To lock John out. He couldn’t bear it any longer. 

“No. No. No.” John stammered. "No more. It’s been too bloody long. I just can’t anymore, Sher-” At the name, John’s voice broke. Tears welled in his eyes and he quickly covered them with his hands, not wanting the clever detective to see. John knew this was a ridiculous notion, hoping that for once in his life Sherlock could miss something.

Still, Sherlock said nothing.

After a few deep breaths John composed himself. He sighed gruffly, checking to make sure that his vocals sounded normal again, and sat down on the bed next to the open-mouthed Sherlock. John decided that he didn’t want to think anymore. He was exhausted. He slumped against Sherlock, his head tucked against the thinner man’s chest. He shut his eyes tightly, listening to the steady thumping of Sherlock’s heart. John knew that Sherlock considered his body merely a vessel to store his perspicacious brain, but John thought of it as something to be adored. He loved Sherlock completely. Inside and out. The kind of love that burns through you like a shot of fine whiskey. It warmed him up to the tips of his fingers and toes. But he had to be careful. Too much of a good thing could make you sick. John knew that though something may feel good at the time, that same shot of whiskey could leave you feeling ill and regretful in the morning.

John wanted to be eternally trapped in their own personal nirvana. The good moments, when they laughed together. When they touched. When their lips met. He wanted to devour Sherlock whole, to drink him in. He wished he could be certain that Sherlock felt the same way about him. He wanted to be the one person that Sherlock needed. To be the physical embodiment of his peace of mind. To be the anchor that kept him away from the black clouds that tormented him now.

John knew, however, that he had to be a realist. They would never have an “as seen on TV” romance. Sherlock would continue to occasionally irritate him. He would always be the man that he was, and John would never be able to put a bandage on him and make him all better. The question he had to face, the one he dreaded, was _would he be able to stick it out_?

Part of him knew he and Sherlock needed each other, but another part of him resented that fact. Lost in his musings, John had not been aware that Sherlock had pulled him down onto the bed and had wrapped his arms tightly around him.

John let out another deep sigh just as Sherlock cleared his throat. Tentatively, Sherlock opened his mouth. Though he tried, no sound came out. He groaned internally and began again. His throat burned and was scratchy from the lack of use. Finally he managed to croak out a single syllable. 

“John.”

At first, John thought he must have fallen asleep and was dreaming. Then he heard the timid treble again, felt the rumbling against his eardrum.

“John. I’m sorry.”

John’s eyes flew open as he sprang upwards in a vertiginous flurry of movement. His jaw dropped open as his eyes met those of the source for his alarm. 

“Say that again”, John blurted.

“Sorry?” Sherlock obliged.

“No, you berk. My _name_. Say my name again.”

The barest hint of a smile struck like lightning on Sherlock’s lips as he whispered, “John.”

John could feel tears welling in his eyes. "Beautiful. That’s so…beautiful, love. I didn’t realize how much I missed the sound of my name coming from your lips. Thank you.”

“I’m sorry, John. I just…I just haven’t been well as of late. I just need time to-"

“Hush, love”, John interrupted. He pressed his fingers to physically quiet the man. Neither of them failed to see the irony in that moment, but they let it go. ”Hush, now. You don’t have to apologise, Sherlock. It’s not your fault. I was just upset because I so wanted to help you but I didn’t know how. I hate seeing you suffer. It pains me.”

“John, I fail to see how my behaviour could cause you to suffer as you seem to have been”, Sherlock mumbled through his gentle soldier’s fingertips.

“Because you’re an idiot. You’re an idiot and I love you.”

John removed his fingertips to replace them with his lips.

Sherlock was his, John decided. Flaws and all. Although sometimes he could barely stand to live with the man, he knew that he certainly could not live without him. He had the experience of three years of separation to prove that. 

So they smiled and kissed, pressing their bodies together. They worshiped each other until the sun went down and they both fell asleep, their skins welded together and limbs locked in a tangle. John’s last thought before drifting off was a silent prayer. _Please God, let my heart be big enough for the both of us to be happy forever_.

Sherlock’s final cogitation before slumber was simply, _John_.


End file.
